Doubting Thomas

I finished reading Odd Thomas over the weekend. It's taken me far too long to start reading Dean Koontz. I'll definitely be back for more.

Being a mystery story, a spoiler-free review would be unintelligible. Instead I'll comment on Koontz's stated intent to chronicle the title character's journey toward perfect humility in light of the first novel's action and themes.

Humility is nothing more or less than self-honesty. It fulfills the ancient exhortation to "know thyself". Humble people understand their own strengths and weaknesses. Bearing all people's inherent worth in mind, they don't compare their gifts, faults, or accomplishments to others'.

How well does Odd meet these conditions? One character trait that the novel really drives home is the protagonist's simplicity. He lives above a nice old lady's garage with interior design by the Salvation Army. Eschewing automobile ownership, he walks to work and borrows friends' cars for trips farther afield. Having worked as a short-order cook since high school, he dreams of a future in tire or shoe sales but is content to nurse his plans slowly.

Such a frugal, unassuming life could result from humility. It could also signify a lack of magnanimity. The novel repeatedly speculates that its main character may be neurotic or even psychotic. His modesty could be the product of a traumatic, imagination-killing childhood.

The best evidence that Odd practices genuine humility is the insight Koontz gives us into his interior life, especially when he deals with others. The author conjures a motley cast of flawed characters to serve as foils. There's the rootless materialistic father, the spoiled and arrogant gold-digger, the irredeemable sociopath. Even when he encounters truly reprehensible people, Odd never uses his own conduct as a standard by which to judge them.

There are a few signs of residual pride operating within Odd's psyche. His willingness to endanger himself for what he sees as the cosmic mandate of his psychic gift clearly exceeds altruism. Garden variety rashness may explain it, but a subtle form of pride underlies his penchant for taking matters into his own hands because the cops are too slow/wouldn't understand/might accuse him. These rationalizations for bypassing the proper channels of justice boil down to the fact that Odd knows he's gifted and the police aren't.

Still, Koontz wants to portray a character on his way to perfect humility. That moral arc would be redundant if Odd started out perfectly humble. I'm interested to see where the road leads.

The Power of Symbols

Storytellers have always used symbols. Even the most ancient texts contain rich symbolism. So do tales predating the written word by millennia.

At first it seems counterproductive to wrap ideas in layers of metaphor. What's easier: saying, "Being too single-minded can land you in trouble," or writing a 635 page book about a guy chasing a whale?

So why do human beings like our messages delivered via symbols? Whatever the reason, it's ingrained deep in our nature. There's no denying that concepts encoded in symbols enjoy far wider distribution and have much longer shelf lives than dry, straightforward discourse. It's a safe bet that the number of people who could tell you one of Aesop's fables is greater than the number who can recite a given passage from Plato's Republic.

Symbols are powerful tools to convey meaning. Contrary to the example above, they can do so quite efficiently. A yellow sign with two stick figures on it prompts you to drive cautiously better than one saying, "There is a school nearby. Kids will probably be crossing this street at some point, so you should slow down."

Though symbols are effective, they are best used with a light touch. The paradoxical nature of symbols dictates that their effectiveness increases (at least in literature) with their subtlety. A scruffy ranger who wins a kingdom through trials and selflessness paints a better picture of messiahship than a talking lion. Sorry, Jack.

Speaking of which, the Christ figure is probably the most enduring and ubiquitous symbol in all of literature. The same holds for pre and non-Christian societies. Whether a writer thinks that the symbol's content is true or not is irrelevant. There's something fundamental to the human condition that makes most people want it to be.

I've been devoting this space to writing advice lately, but all I can really tell you about using symbols is that 1: you'll do it whether you mean to or not; and 2: resist the urge to explain the symbols you use. As Dean Koontz explains, stained glass windows don't have subtitles.